Torn
by CrossingTheSky
Summary: Matthew, a 21 year old serving in the Canadian forces, is shot and left behind after his squadron is ambushed on the way to the base. Alfred will stop at nothing to save him. Unbeknownst to him, there is third party also looking for the Canadian...
1. Chapter 1

The first red tinges of the rising sun crept over the barren horizon. A lone figure huddled in the dust, staring out at the endless desert, sand and dust reflecting off of the heavy goggles that shielded his eyes from the sun. The desert was endless, ridges and hills of sand stretching off into the distance as far as he could see. The oppressive heat was already starting to permeate the air, wilting the feeble grasses that clung to life in the baked mud.

Matthew lifted his head, staring down the long, dusty road that parted the endless sands of the Afghan Desert. He had been stranded, alone and abandoned, for two days now. His canteen was nearly empty, the last traces of water making light sloshing noises each time he moved. He had half a mind to drain the canteen and be done with it; to stop rationing himself to a few halting sips every few hours. He wanted to gulp down what little water remained, to squander it in a burst of fulfilling need. He wouldn't, of course. He despised the teasing weight of the canteen, the ever-present reminder of what little time he had left, but he wasn't about to give up hope.

For perhaps the hundredth time since his abandonment, he fingered the dog tags strung around his neck. They were sticky and warm from being pressed against his chest. They felt unbearably heavy, though they could not possibly weigh more than a few grams each. Eyes flicking from the tags to the desert, then back again, he flipped the one closest to his heart over, fingers tracing out the name engraved in the hot metal. Alfred Jones, his half-brother, and the only reason Matthew had not given up hope.

They had been part of a small transport –no more than 10 men or so- on their way to the base. They had been happy, leaving the desert for a month long break had seemed dream-like after their years of fighting. Alfred had been ecstatic, excitedly talking to all who would listen about his plans as soon as he returned home. Matthew had listened quietly, interjecting his own ideas whenever the opportunity arose. Every few minutes Alfred would turn to him only to deliver another blinding smile before continuing a story, eagerly protesting when Matthew jokingly rolled his eyes at his idea of a perfect day-McDonalds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, interrupted only by horror movies and videogames. Matthew would propose some better options-namely hockey- and the arguments would spiral upwards from there. Beneath all his snide comments however, Matthew couldn't wait to get home. And just looking into his brother's eyes, he could tell Alfred was thinking the same thing.

A sentry had noticed a cloud of dust rising into the heated desert air behind them. Soon, the sound of engines roaring could be heard clearly over the drone of the truck's engine. They had prepared for combat, readying their rifles and staring anxiously as four black motorcycles came steadily into view, each carrying a masked driver and a passenger holding a machine gun. The mysterious passengers had opened fire, the spray of bullets lodging in the wood and metal of the truck bed, whistling around the soldiers as they struggled to return fire. Matthew, like the rest of the men in the truck, had crouched behind one of the many supply crates that were scattered across the rear of the truck, attempting to shoot his pursuers. It was a difficult task; the truck lurched over the unpaved desert road unpredictably, causing his aim to fly off each time he tried to take a shot. Luckily, the bandits were having similar problems.

Soon there was only one rider left, still chasing the truck even as his comrades lay dead in the dust behind him. Matthew stood to take a shot, leaning out over the open end of the truck as he steadied himself against a steel support beam. Suddenly, the truck lurched forward, bouncing awkwardly over a sizeable dip in the road. Matthew grabbed at the truck's wall, hands scrabbling uselessly across the rusty metal as he felt himself falling. He was jerked back by a rough hand around his collar, and he turned, looking into the panicked blue eyes of his brother. Alfred smiled, tense and worried, before releasing him and laughing awkwardly. "Sorry about that bro, but I'm not about to lose you that easily."

Matthew had opened his mouth to reply, only to cry out as a searing pain knifed through his leg. A shot echoed in his ear as he felt the bullet tear into him, carving through skin and flesh like butter. His knees buckled beneath him, and he was falling, his thigh smacking against the edge of the truck bed before slipping over the small ledge that separated the truck bed from the ground rushing beneath him. He felt hands pull uselessly at his jacket, slipping over the coarse thread as uselessly as his own hands had traced the truck supports just moments before. He grabbed blindly behind him, feeling rather than seeing his brother's face, closing his hand on a thin chain –dog tags? –And pulling, trying to steady himself, opening his eyes just in time to see his brother's panicked face as the chain snapped. And then he was falling, really falling this time, and his arm pounded against the rough dirt of the road, a futile attempt to break his fall, and the rest of his body followed, falling limply to the dirt. He rolled involuntarily, his leg screaming in protest, before coming to a stop, face down in the dust. He blearily raised his head in time to see the truck continue down the road, a dusty cloud in its' wake.

Why weren't they stopping? A loud droning reached his ears, and he turned his head to the side, eyes widening as he saw the lone rider speeding toward him. Closing his eyes, he waited for the impact, wincing instinctively as the bike sped by his ear, missing him completely. Matthew laughed in relief, a groan of pain escaping his lips as he tried to stand. The rider was probably smart enough to realize that hitting his limp body while going at speeds in excess of 60km/h wasn't great for the tires. He would have acted as a human speed bump. As the bike became a black shape, rapidly fading into the distance, Matthew became aware of a new sound, deep and rough. Looking back, he saw another cloud of dust rising, much bigger than the first. That's why they hadn't stopped. Looks like the biker had reinforcements.

Looking back up the road to the now fuzzy speck in the distance -his glasses had been knocked off in his fall-his eyes caught a slight glimmer on the road. Crawling slowly forward, he nearly cried at what he saw. His brother's dog tags. Grasping the thin chain tightly, he shoved them in his pocket, eyes wandering back to the approaching trucks.

Gathering his strength, and trying not to cry out as his wounded leg threatened to give out, he crawled to the side of the road, falling into a welcoming ditch. He crawled over the sand and dried mud, reaching the top of a large dune just as the convoy of trucks became visible. Hurriedly flinging himself over the edge of the dune, he tumbled haphazardly out of sight, flipping and rolling before coming to rest in a small gully. Thankfully, he had not been seen -or perhaps he just wasn't important enough for them to stop- and the trucks passed him, men shouting in an unknown language as they continued after the motorcycle.

Matthew sighed in relief before reclining against the sloped walls of the ditch, careful to avoid putting pressure on his wounded leg, letting his eyes slip shut as he reached into his pocket, withdrawing Alfred's dog tags. He traced the contours of the small metal plates, unstringing them from the broken chain and sliding them onto his own, sighing as the warm metal slid across his neck.

Looking around, he spotted a small dip in the sand in front of him. The desert winds had carved out a small channel, creating a trench of sorts, which he gratefully sank into. The air was hot, his army jacket making the heat nearly unbearable, but the ditch provided some means of relief from the hot sun. Shrugging off the jacket, he reclined in the sand, falling asleep quickly to dream of rescue.

He stayed in that ditch for two days.

* * *

So first of all...  
**Massive Disclaimer:** I know NOTHING about being in the army, but I'd like to hope they don't leave people behind like that, although in this fictitious situation it was for the best. I needed to get him alone, and I couldn't think of a better way to do this. I also have no idea whether a dog tag "necklace" would break that easily. Finally, I'm sorry for bringing the Taliban/Afghanistan into this. I'm not usually one to bring politics into writing, not the writing that I post here anyway. Either way, this is not meant to be a pro-war story, or an anti-muslim story, or anything racist. I just needed a military conflict that Canada is currently participating in. Needless to say, I support our troops, just not the war efforts themselves. I'm more of a talk-it-out person.  
**Author's Note**: This is going to be a chapter fic. Thanks for reading, reviews (good and bad) are appreciated.  
-Meg


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew crouched in the sand, holding the canteen to his lips. He had drained it several hours ago, and the never-ending thirst that plagued his body was beginning to take its' toll. Thankfully, he had managed to stay out of the sun, having dug a small hole in the sandy trench, effectively escaping any of the stray sunlight that managed to stream in over the tall dunes. He was surprised his canteen had lasted as long as it did. Now his throat ached, craving more of the warm water he had been so dissatisfied with back in the truck. Anything to sate the thirst. He knew that it would get worse, that he'd soon crave water so badly he would kill for it, becoming more and more delirious as the sun beat down, finally dying, and then even the water in his blood would soon be gone, evaporating into the dry air. He chuckled blackly at the thought. Even his corpse would be thirsty, trapped in the sand, slowly disappearing as the dirt covered his remains. Rubbing the dog tags that still hung around his neck, possibly for the hundredth time that day, he closed his eyes. He couldn't give up yet. Alfred would come. He had to.

* * *

Alfred stormed through the base, his anger blocking out the worried shouts of men echoing behind him. A dull throb of pain radiated form the bullet wound in his arm, another reminder of the past days' events. Marching outside, he ignored the two soldiers guarding that saluted him as he strode through the doors. Rank and honour meant nothing now. Not after what they had done. Reaching the rows of barbed wire and cement that marked the perimeter of the base, he stared out at the desert. Somewhere, lying trapped in the sand and sun and heat, was his brother.

He blamed himself for what happened, the guilt growing stronger with every passing second. The haunted blue eyes of his brother still blazed in his mind, bright with pain and fear. His neck was bruised from where his dog tags had been ripped from his body, the purple ring around his neck a mocking collar, forever forcing him to remember what could possibly be his last memory of his brother. He had left his brother alone in the desert. He had left his brother to die.

He felt like screaming, staring at the desert that marked his brother's grave. A loud and piercing wail filled the air, hanging over the base menacingly before being swept away by the desert wind. It took a few seconds before realizing he was its creator, and by then it was too late. A few stray tears beaded at the corners of his eyes before he batted them away angrily, tensing at the sound of cautious footsteps approaching.

A hand planted itself on his shoulder. He didn't acknowledge its presence, still resolutely staring out and the endless sand. He had refused to go home, refused his chance at freedom and peace, and why? He couldn't let go. He would rather sit in the desert, risking his life, alone and miserable with nothing to do but torture himself with fleeting notions of finding his brother. Because this was easier than facing the truth, that Matthew, his brother, was gone.

A gruff voice rasped in his ear, devoid of any emotion. "Soldier."

"I'm not a soldier." He replied, shrugging the hand off, trying his best not to break down then and there.

"You are. You are Alfred Jones, 20 years old, and have been serving in the Canadian military for almost 4 months now. You may be new to the ways of war, but you are a soldier nonetheless."

"Soldiers are heroes. I'm not hero." The words were choking him, the memory coming back, playing in front of his eyes. If he'd been stronger, more attentive, then maybe…

"You are a soldier, Mr. Jones, and you will act like it. There was nothing you could do. Nothing anyone could do. You're lucky you made it back here at all." He stared at the melancholy figure before him, waiting for a response. When he got none, he continued. "You will turn and address me, private."

Alfred willed his feet to move, turning slowly to face the sergeant. The unbearable sadness he had felt moments before was changing, turning to something else, something much more tangible and real. Poison filled his veins as he stared at the man who had refused to help, who had left his brother to die and thought nothing. When they had first arrived at the base, it had been chaos, soldiers and other military personnel rushing to defend the base from the approaching vehicles. The fight had been fast and brutal, with several injured on both sides. It was several hours before the fighting had stopped, and he was able to voice his concerns about his brother. He had come to the officers, expecting support, expecting them to agree and send a few men back down the road as a search effort. He had been severely disappointed. He received many looks of sympathy, meaningless words of encouragement hollowly in his ears, but when the time came to make a decision, he was betrayed. Of the six officers that were willing to listen to his plea, only one stood up for him, and even then Alfred could tell he was doing it only out of sympathy, his arguments lacking any real conviction. He could still recall the discussion, where Sergeant Kirkland had scoffed at his plea, reminding the others that they were there for one reason, and one reason alone. To fight. And that it made no sense to run back into the desert in search of one man, when the task would potentially put many more at risk. The room had emptied, and Alfred was alone again, abandoned like his brother.

Alfred hated Seargent Kirkland. He had always disliked the man, and the two had butted heads on more than one occasion, but it was this betrayal, the scathing indifference in his tone as Alfred pleaded for help, that turned that dislike to boiling, red, hatred. Alfred hated everything about the man. He hated his accent, how it was distinctly British, prim and proper and uncaring. He hated how he refused to listen to anyone but his superiors, and even then he was ridiculously stubborn, always adding his own instructions in with whatever order he had been given. He hated how the sergeant looked out only for himself. And it was through this haze of red hatred that he regarded the sergeant, glaring angrily at the man who stood before him now, telling him to forget all about his brother. In Alfred's eyes, it was not the biker, or the approaching trucks, that had taken his brother. No, the man responsible for Matthew's possible death was standing before him, prim and proper and uncaring. And it was with this in mind that he finally spoke.

"Sergeant Kirkland, with all due respect, you are a coward." He continued, feeling the anger rise in his chest, spilling forth as he finally stood his ground. "You are asking me to forget what happened. You want me to go on as though the ambush didn't affect me, to live like everything's fine and dandy, but you know what? It's NOT!" His voice cracked, but he continued, desperate to finish. "It's not okay, Sergeant Kirkland… Arthur," he ignored the man's scowl as he addressed him by his full name. "It's not going to be alright, because my brother is in that desert, suffering, and I'm here, sitting on my ass, safe in the base, leaving him to die!" He shivered involuntarily as he finished, tears silently falling down his face.

"I understand that very well, Mr. Jones," came the apathetic response. "But we simply can't afford to risk more lives on a hopeless mission." Alfred made to interrupt, his eyes blazing with anger once more. However, Arthur pressed on before he could, raising his voice to drown out any protests he could have made. "As you know, our situation here is very unstable, and the threat of ambush is imminent, especially after yesterday's display. We cannot simply run off into the desert on a wild goose chase, to try and bring your brother back. For all we know, he could be captured, or dead. And I'm not about to risk my life, or the lives of any of the men here, for a corpse."

Alfred shook with barely contained rage as the sergeant turned away, heading back to his quarters. He had half a mind to follow him, to slam him against a wall and force him to listen. He'd punch the arrogant bastard in the face, force him to send out a patrol and search until his brother was found. He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. That wouldn't work. He'd just be confined to his quarters, possibly sent home for attacking an officer. And where would that leave him? He couldn't bear to leave now, not while there was still a spark of hope in his chest. Mattie was strong; he wouldn't lie down and die. He turned to the desert, scanning the endless sand once more. They had been ambushed 10, maybe 15 kilometers from the base. Mattie had his canteen and some emergency rations, and provided he had found some sort of shelter, he could be alive. He couldn't not be.

But what if he was captured? What then? Was he being tortured, beaten and abused as his brother stood comfortably in the relative safety of the base? He would be depending on Alfred to save him either way. Pushing thoughts of kidnapping and torture from his mind, Alfred stared out into the hot sand once more. He could have escaped. He could be waiting in the sand, praying for rescue. Another look at the shifting sands chased away any doubts that he had harbored. Matthew was out there, and Alfred was determined to find him.

* * *

Okay, there's chapter 2 done.  
Thanks for reading!  
I hate asking people to review, but I like to know when I've made a glaring mistake (eg. poor grammar, spelling, words don't make sense...) so if you see something like that, let me know!  
I'll try to update this at least once a week (but I like where it's going to I'll probably update more often than that)

Thank you!  
-Meg


	3. Chapter 3

He left a few hours before dawn. Dawning his military coat and pants, and filling a backpack with supplies -namely water, for Matthew was sure to be dehydrated- Alfred left the base. It wasn't easy, with the sentries standing at attention, their night-vision goggles destroying any chance he had of escaping unseen. However, he was able to get far enough away that if anyone chanced to look in his direction, they would not be able to recognize him as a soldier. Maybe they would shoot him. Or, more likely, they would watch to see what his business was, wandering so close to the base, and when they found that he was doing no harm, simply continuing down the dusty road, they would leave him be and return their watchful eyes to the shifting sands.

The long, dusty road cracked under his boots as he slowly made his way towards the site of the attack. He planned to get there by sunrise, so that he could reach his brother before the hot sun began to beat down. He refused to think about what would happen if he did not find his brother. He would not give up hope. They had been through too much for him to simply forget, like the sergeant had suggested.

He recalled their first mission in Afghanistan, where they had been sent to investigate an abandoned town. They had gone in with the rest of their squadron, checking for soldiers or militia, looking back warily for fear of hidden snipers or assassins. Anything was possible. Alfred had spotted a figure rushing from an abandoned house, and being the eager new recruit he was, he disregarded all his training and began to run after him. He had just made it to the center of the road before the figure threw a small, metal object at his feet. He had stared at it stupidly, blinking uncomprehendingly at the metal and duct tape.

And then Matthew had come barreling out of nowhere, practically throwing Alfred into the ditch and diving in seconds later, just barely missing the rain of shrapnel that had whistled over the trench. He landed on his brother, pinning him in the dried mud and shielding him from the metal shards that flew through the air. Alfred could remember the raw terror he felt, trapped under his brother, the deafening boom from the explosion ringing in his eardrums. And then Matthew had rolled off him, and Alfred had caught a glimpse of his bloodied back.

He had been terrified, blaming himself for the death of his brother without even comprehending the extent of the damage done. It was only when he felt Matthew's hand stroking his cheek, his worried eyes boring into his own, that he was able to calm down and examine his brother's back. To his relief, there was not as much as he had originally thought, and although the jagged cuts crisscrossed his brother's back in a gruesome, bloody, pattern, he could tell they were not deep, and that he would be fine.

Nonetheless, Alfred had blamed himself for the incident, and still shivered when his brother took off his shirt, exposing the now faded white lines that dotted his back, serving as faint reminders of what had transpired on their first day in combat. From that day on, Alfred had done his best to protect his brother from the horrors that they had faced, although even he had to admit the lithe Canadian scarcely needed the protection. More often than not, it was Matthew who came running in after his brother, saving him from whatever trouble he had accidentally caused.

He continued to think of the time they had spent together in the godforsaken wasteland named Afghanistan, the memories sustaining him until he reached the site of the attack.

He could see the tire marks, still imprinted in the ground, from where the motorcycle had swerved to avoid hitting his brother's prone form. He noticed that the larger, deeper tracks –left by the trucks no doubt- did not swerve or thicken, indicating that they did not stop to capture or crush his brother. It was then that he noticed the faint copper smears in the dust. Blood; his brothers' no doubt. He felt bile begin to rise in his throat, his stomach clenching at the though of his brother, alone and dying at the side of the road.

Of course, he knew Matthew was wounded. He had seen the shot. But he never got a chance to examine the wound, to see whether it had hit an artery or broken a bone. He couldn't bear the thought of his brother bleeding to death in the desert, alone and afraid. His eyes followed the smear, noticing the faint lines in the dirt for the first time. His brother had dragged himself away from the road. He followed the bloody marks –clearly he had crawled- to a nearby sand dune. He continued up the dune, pausing at the top to survey the land around him. The desert was spread out before him, the faint tinges of yellow and pink spreading across the sky serving to illuminate the contours of the endless sand. Deciding to risk being found out, by whom, he didn't know, he shouted Matthew's name, listening to it echo over the dunes, praying for a reply.

He didn't know how long he stood for, waiting with baited breath, but eventually he realized that Matthew was not going to answer. He sighed, feeling the hope in his chest die a little more, but he refused to give up. Mattie needed him. He called again, listening eagerly, trying to reassure himself that Matthew was fine, that he just hadn't heard him. When he got no reply a second time, he called again, desperate, his cries haunting, only reinforcing the cold feeling of dread that slowly knotted in his stomach. He listened; half hoping he had heard a faint shout for help before realizing it was only his imagination. His pleas were only answered by the wind. After the tenth try he gave up, looking toward the bottom of the dune, hoping for something, anything, to quell his growing sense of unease. His eyes fell upon a small trail of indents in the sand. He followed them with his eyes, noticing that they led to a small gully. Hope flared in his chest once more. The shifting sand had mostly buried the tracks, but he continued to hope regardless, praying that they were left by something more substantial than a desert creature.

He followed the tracks down the large dune, sliding down the steep incline, his boots filling with sand and dirt. Finally he reached the edge of the ditch. He took a cautious breath, afraid of what he might find, before sliding himself down. A rattled breath caught in his ears. "Hi, Al."

Alfred couldn't look away from the pitiful body on the ground. Matthew's limp form was sprawled in the dirt, partially obscured by sand. He looked to be barely conscious, hooded eyes fluttering as a weak smile graced his features. "You came." His voice was dry, like the desert around them. He could barely hear it over the wind and the sand. He crawled closer to his brother's prone form, gently brushing the sand away from his legs to check the bullet wound. He sucked in a breath, his stomach threatening to empty itself at the sight. Matthew's pants were covered in blood. A small bandana had been sloppily tied over the wound, presumably to apply a meager amount of pressure and to keep the dirt from getting into the bloody hole.

He was about to undo the makeshift dressing and examine the wound when he realized Matthew's eyes had slipped closed. Stumbling slightly, he leaned over his brother's face, wrought with worry, slapping gently at his pale cheeks and praying for a response.

Matthew's eyes fluttered open again. "lemmie sleep. M'tired."

"No, no Mattie you're not, you're dehydrated." Upon receiving no response, Alfred opened his backpack, searching frantically before triumphantly pulling out a full canteen ad presenting it to his brother. Matthew made no move to take it. He had closed his eyes again, and Alfred realized that he would have to hurry: the idea of carrying a semi-conscious Matthew 10 kilometers to the base in the hot desert sun was not very appealing, to say the least. Fumbling to open his canteen, Alfred pressed the container to Matthew's lips, lifting his head and helping him drink. Matthew seemed to understand, or maybe he was simply too weak to care, as he allowed for a steady trickle of cool water to flow into his mouth. Once the water touched his dry palette however, his attitude changed. He greedily gulped down the life-giving water, uncaring if he spilt some over his chest. Once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. The water that he had craved so badly flowed freely down his throat, refreshing his tired body, bringing life back into what was once a living corpse. After the first few frenzied gulps, Alfred intervened, pulling the nozzle from his brother's lips and forcing him to take mid-sized sips. Soon Matthew had finished the canteen, and he turned eagerly to Alfred, silently pleading for more.

"Thanks."

Alfred smiled in return, before answering the unspoken question. "You can't have any more just yet." He continued on, ignoring Matthew's protests. "You drank that whole canteen in less than five minutes. If you try and drink another, you'll vomit, and we'll be right back where we started." Alfred frowned slightly before continuing, "And if you barf, I'm not cleaning you up. That's just gross."

Matthew let out a shaky laugh. "Thanks Al. I'm really feeling the love."

Alfred pretended to pout, "That's the thanks I get for sneaking out of the base and wandering through the desert at night to find you? You ingrate."

Matthew laughed before realizing the implications of his brother's words. "Wait. You snuck out of the base?"

"It's a long story," Alfred replied, sliding an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling him tight against his chest. "Just rest for a bit. We'll head back tonight and I'll tell you all about it."

Matthew mumbled a reply, his eyes already beginning to shut of their own accord. Soon he was asleep, wrapped safe in his brother's arms. Alfred smiled down at him, deciding to wait until he was properly asleep before checking his brother's wound. He hadn't admitted it, but Matthew looked like he had been through hell, and it scared him. Even now, with his warm weight (still a little too warm, he was going to need another drink soon) resting against his chest, he couldn't help but worry. This was the second time he hadn't been able to protect him. Stroking the sleeping blonde's hair gently and smiling slightly at the serene face pressed into his chest, he made a promise: he would protect his brother, and he would get him home.

He let Matthew rest for several hours, curled up in their corner of the desert, protected from the world. Neither brother noticed the distant echo of gunfire that drifted through the air.

* * *

A cool hand brushed Matthew's leg. Groaning in his sleep, he rolled away, attempting to burrow down into the dirt. Strong hands pulled him back, laying him on his back and pulling at his pants, gently untying the clumsy bandage around his bullet wound. His eyes fluttered open, the world slowly coming into focus before his tired eyes. He gazed around, confused and disoriented for a moment before his eyes landed on the shaking form of his brother, who was just beginning to unwrap the dirt and sweat encrusted bandanna from his leg.

"Al?" He mumbled questioningly, his voice sounding raspy and weak in his ears.

He reached for the backpack, groaning softly as Alfred stopped his ministrations for long enough to pull the heavy pack out of his reach. "I'm not going to let you have any yet."

Matthew whined in disappointment, pleading hopelessly for a sip, just a few drops, before gathering his strength and punching his brother in the arm, smirking in satisfaction as Alfred winced. "I've been stuck in the desert for two days, Al. Give me the water, and I'll try not to beat the living shit out of you, eh?"

Alfred laughed, tired and relieved, before pressing a new canteen to his brother's lips, allowing him to take a few greedy sips before replacing the cap and depositing the liquid far away from the Canadian's prying hands. "Man it's good to see some life in you. I was worried for a while there." He laughed nervously before continuing, "But I can't give you any more. I'm going to bandage your leg and I don't want you to throw it up if it gets too painful for you."

He reached for the backpack, withdrawing a small military-issue first aid kit. Snapping the tiny box open, he turned his attention back to Matthew, preparing to peel the blood-laden bandage off of the wound. His hands shook, knowing full well that whatever he found under the layer of crimson would not be pretty. He nervously rubbed his hands with an alcoholic wipe before glancing back to his brother's face; making sure he had not fallen unconscious. Feeling the calm violet eyes meet his own, he turned back to the wound, gripping the bandana firmly by the edges before pulling, wincing at the sound of sticky blood pulling at skin. The bandana seemed to be fused to his brother's thigh, each gentle tug yielding minimal results as the scarlet liquid seeped onto his hands, dying his fingers red. He could feel Matthew begin to shake, but he had yet to make a single sound, save for his faint, shaky breaths. Alfred was grateful. He knew that as soon as Matthew cried out, he wouldn't be able to continue.

Finally, he was able to pull the blood-soaked cloth away. What he saw took his breath away. He could feel his stomach heave at what lay underneath, the bile rising in his throat as thoughts of death and amputation raced through his mind. A bloody hole marred his brother's leg, and when he peered closer, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood and flesh, he could just barely see faint metallic flash of silver lodged in his reddened flesh. He slowly withdrew the canteen, panicked and nervous as he thought of the pain his brother would soon be in. If he had been stronger, more attentive, maybe he wouldn't have to do this. He cleaned the wound to the best of his ability, given the limited supplies in their position, pouring a steady stream of lukewarm water into the bloody mess. As he felt the canteen grow lighter, he stopped, reluctant to use any more of the precious liquid. He hurriedly reached for the medical supplies, fumbling hands grasping a tube of antiseptic and ripping the cap off. He poured a liberal amount onto the wound, jumping back as his brother let out a keening howl.

Alfred watched, too stunned to do anything as his brother screamed, a raw and haunting wail that echoed over the desert like the cries of the buzzards. Grabbing his knife, he cut a strip of cloth from the old tee shirt he wore under his coat. Twisting it into a neat roll, he forced it between his screaming brothers' teeth, ignoring the stabs of guilt at his brother's inability to acknowledge his presence through the pain.

Ignoring his brother's muffled sobs; Alfred turned his attention back to the bullet wound. He briefly contemplated pulling the bullet out, but decided against it, finding himself unable to cause his brother any more pain. He bound the leg in a thick layer of gauze, tying the bandage off neatly before rolling Matthew's camouflage pants back down to his ankles.

By this time his brother's agonized shrieks had been reduced to small whimpers, mixed in with the shaky breaths that escaped his parted lips. He spat the gag from his mouth, leaning back against the rough walls of the gully. "Water," he rasped, turning weakly to face Alfred. His brother dumbly complied, handing him the half-used canteen that lay in the dirt beside the first aid kit.

Matthew gulped down the rest of the canteen, teasing the last drops from the opening with the tip of his tongue before throwing the empty container in the dirt. "Thanks." He cracked a smile, motioning for Alfred to sit next to him. His brother continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly, giving no indication that he had heard him at all. Gradually, the older brother shifted his gaze to his hands, now stained a coppery red with Matthew's blood.

Matthew, finally understanding, leaned forward and pulled his brother towards him, gripping tighter when he tried to pull away. Alfred ended up positioned awkwardly on Matthew's good leg, refusing to move or even look at his brother. Matthew pulled him into a hug, reaching one hand up to stroke his hair and nuzzling his cheek gently. "It's alright Al. I'm okay." Alfred grunted out a response, still refusing to meet Matthew's worried gaze. Matthew sighed, cupping his brother's chin and forcing him to look up into his eyes. "Alfred, you know just as well as I do that I've been hurt way worse. Remember back in Montreal, when we used to play hockey? I'd come home injured every day then."

Alfred let a small smile slip across his face. "Yeah, I guess. But this is different. You got shot Mattie. _Shot._ I can't just let that go."

Matthew grinned, hugging his brother tightly. "You saved me Al. I should be the one feeling bad, not you. So quit your whining or I'll run back to the base this instant, and leave you here to rot."

Alfred laughed, trying to envision Arthur's reaction to Matthew leaving his brother in the desert. Then he frowned, suddenly realizing how much trouble they'd be in when they got back. "Aw man, eyebrows is going to kill me!"

"Why?" Came the puzzled response.

"Well, you know how I said I snuck out of the base to find you?"

"Yeah.."

"Well, I kind of had a but of a fight with the Sergeant before I left."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You're screwed, you know that right?"

Soon both brothers were laughing, the easy laughter echoing over the dunes. Alfred was just calming down when Matthew stilled, his eyes sharp and alert as he looked toward the horizon. Alfred stared at his brother, perplexed at the sudden change in emotion. "What's wrong Mattie?"

Matthew pointed in the direction of the base, fear beginning to creep into his eyes. "Alfred, what's that?" His voice wavered.

Alfred turned to see what was causing his brother so much distress. A large column of smoke was steadily rising into the darkening sky.

* * *

So this is a little longer than the last two, so that's good. Sorry about all the dialogue, by the way. I know I promised more action in this chapter, but I couldn't really do much if Mattie was going to die. And I really don't want to portray him as the weak little brother who's always in need of rescue.

*Also, I don't know if buzzards actually live in Afghanistan.

Anyway, comment if you see anything wrong, or if you have any ideas for what's going to happen next (I don't really plan this out...the words just sort of come. Sorry about that.)  
-Meg


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